


what we do

by Wildehack (tyleet)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, M/M, but this takes place the night before The Unknowing, no archive warnings apply here, so. know that.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyleet/pseuds/Wildehack
Summary: “No thanks, boss,” Tim says. “Think I’d rather spend my last night on earth with–oh, anyone else.”





	what we do

They check into the bed and breakfast first thing when they get into Greater Yarmouth, in spite of Daisy’s protests that it’s night already and they might as well get it over with. Jon thinks-–or, well, Jon is pretty sure he Knows–-that the ritual won’t begin properly until tomorrow.   
  
“Fine,” Daisy says, clipped. “See you tomorrow, then. Basira?”   
  
Basira follows after her, a vaguely apologetic look on her face. She doesn’t look back, which leaves just Jon and Tim in the lobby.   
  
Jon shifts his bag on his shoulder. “Do you want to-–grab a bite-–?” he tries, and Tim makes a short, disgusted sound.   
  
“No thanks, boss,” he says. “Think I’d rather spend my last night on earth with–oh, _anyone else_.”   
  
“Don’t talk like that,” Jon says sharply, and Tim rolls his eyes, already walking away.   
  
“If you’re not thinking about it,” Tim says over his shoulder, “Maybe you should.”   
  
Jon sighs.   
  
He puts his bag in his room, and brings his notebook full of research on the Stranger down to an overpriced touristy restaurant, where he chokes down a mediocre sandwich and lingers over an even more mediocre glass of red. Last night on earth, he thinks, and feels just utterly exhausted. He thinks about texting Georgie-–and then, more seriously, about texting Martin. But he’s imposed enough on Georgie already, and Martin-–he doesn’t want to distract Martin, knowing what he’s going to be doing tomorrow. He puts his phone back in his bag, and goes back to the bed and breakfast.   
  
He reads a statement-–nothing particularly interesting, just someone’s near-miss with the End–-with the vague intention of being fully powered-up for tomorrow. When he finishes he rubs his hands over his eyes, then goes to change for bed.   
  
The knock on the door comes when he’s brushing his teeth.   
  
Jon spits into the sink, and opens the door still holding his toothbrush.   
  
“I lied,” Tim says, and he looks even worse than Jon feels. “Guess I don’t have as much self-respect as I wish. Drink?” He proffers a bottle of vodka. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Jon says flatly.   
  
“Yeah,” Tim says, and shrugs. “What else is new?”   
  
Jon sighs. “Come in,” he says, and goes to put his toothbrush away.   
  
Tim pours the vodka into the paper cups the bed and breakfast left out by the coffee maker, and settles himself onto Jon’s bed, tipping his head back until it rests against the wall.   
  
Jon takes one of the cups and joins him, and is briefly struck by the picture they must make: Jon in the loose shirt and pyjama bottoms he wears to bed, Tim still wearing boots and his brown leather jacket. They both down their first shots silently, although Jon gasps a bit at the end. “Never was a fan of straight vodka,” he admits. “Mostly, uh, sipping whiskeys.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I always preferred a Cosmo myself,” Tim says, and pours them another.   
  
They’re pretty deep into the bottle when Jon says he’s sorry.   
  
“For what,” Tim says, his face darkening. He’s lost the boots by now, and the jacket is spread out on the bed like an extra blanket. Tim’s braced against the footboard, and Jon is sort of listing towards the pillows. “The stalking? The thinking I was a murderer? The leaving me alone to deal with all the-–the endless crap–-without ever_, even once_, trusting me?”   
  
“No,” Jon says quietly, and then quickly amends: “Well, yes, yes, for all of that too, that was-–not, not fair of me-–”   
  
“You are such a_ bastard_,” Tim groans, and kind of kicks at Jon’s leg. Jon catches his foot, trying to prevent more violence, and then is too tired to move his hand.   
  
“No,” Jon says, guilt and vodka and real grief making his chest go horribly tight, “No, Tim, I’m sorry for-–I’m the avatar of the bloody Eye, I’m supposed to, to _know _things, to see things, and I’m-–I’m sorry for not knowing about Sasha.”   
  
Tim is silent for a long moment, and then he looks up at Jon, his face savage, and says: “_Good_.”   
  
Jon’s heart stops for a second, and Tim continues, yanking his foot out of Jon’s grip and sort of huddling in on himself, his voice still terrible: “_Someone_ should be fucking sorry.”   
  
“I am,” Jon says painfully, lurching up to his knees and then overbalancing, so Tim has to catch him before he falls off the bed. He clutches Tim’s arms for balance, and then for emphasis. “I’m sorry, _god_, I’m so sorry.”   
  
This close, he can see the tears in Tim’s eyes, the angry tremble in his mouth, and some dusty, drunken impulse to comfort rises up in Jon. Awkwardly he brings a hand up to Tim’s hair, strokes clumsily down his skull, the way Georgie used to stroke his hair when things were bad. “I’m sorry,” Jon repeats, nearly in a whisper. “I failed you, I failed her, I failed Melanie and Martin and Basira, and–-you, and–-“   
  
Tim kisses him. It’s not really a surprise, given the situation, but Jon still goes stiff before he remembers to bring his free hand up to rest cautiously on Tim’s shoulder.   
  
“Not your fault,” Tim mutters against his mouth, and he’s gripping Jon’s waist hard, his thumbs digging into Jon's skin.   
  
“What,” Jon asks, not understanding, and Tim sighs against his jaw.   
  
“It’s not your fault,” he says, almost angry again. “It’s–-it’s random, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter what you do, what you-–don’t do. We’re helpless, Jon. That’s the whole fucking story. We’re just helpless.” 

“No,” Jon says, rejecting this with his whole being, clutching Tim tighter to make his point. “No, no–-that’s–-um,” and he doesn’t remember where the quote comes from, but it’s like the words are just waiting for him, on the tip of his tongue: “Look, if nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do.”   
  
Tim goes very still. “Did,” he says after a minute, tentative, “Did you just quote _Angel_ at me, boss?”   
  
“I don’t know what that is,” Jon says, even though-–oh god, was that-–the tv show Georgie got every dvd from the university library of–-?  
  
“You did,” Tim says, and a startled, almost hysterical bubble of laughter comes out of him. “We’re gonna die tomorrow, and you’re quoting Joss Whedon.”   
  
“I said I _don’t know what that is_,” Jon says with drunken dignity, but Tim is still laughing, so after a minute he starts laughing too.   
  
At some point they tip over into the pillows, and Tim pats Jon’s cheek and then just leaves his hand there, thumb resting on Jon’s cheekbone. “You’re awful,” Tim says, sounding about a minute from drifting off. “But you're better than being alone.”   
  
“You’re no picnic yourself,” Jon says, and closes his eyes. “But, ah, yes. I agree.”   
  
“Wish we’d been friends,” Tim says wistfully. “Might have been better.”   
  
Jon’s chest hurts. “Yeah,” he says, when he can manage it. He’s remembering all the after-works drinks invitations he’d turned down, the way he’d been deliberately distant after the promotion, to–-cement his authority, or something. Stupid. “Yeah, it–-might have been. I’m. I’m sorry about that, too.”   
  
There’s silence. Jon opens one eye. “Tim?”   
  
But Tim’s fallen asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just sad about Tim Stoker all the time now I guess????? 
> 
> Come be sad with me at wildehacked on tumblr if u want


End file.
